By the time Illius got off work, clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. He needed to run some errands, and after everything that had happened that day, a trip to the art museum seemed like a good way to lift his mood. The rain started to pour just as the museum came in sight, so he pulled his hood lower and ignored the drops soaking through his jacket. Past a dozen cobblestone steps, he reached the entrance and pushed open the heavy oak door. Mmm. It always smelled the same—like ages-old paint and books. The museum in Debendorf was one of the oldest in the country.

He nodded to the receptionist and paid a few coins for his entrance. Then, he pushed his hood back, leaving his green, saggy beanie to keep his head warm. His curly hair dripped from the rain as he glanced around. As usual, he stood alone in the empty halls. He beelined for his favorite section—down the stairs, right, then the long corridor until he came to the section for dragons. A brief smile brightened his face as he walked past a massive painting depicting a roaring dragon.

“Ah, you’re back,” a voice startled him. He turned to see one of the museum’s curators there. The man’s hair had gone grey, and if Illius had to guess, he worked here more by choice than by necessity. “You always come to see the dragons.”

Illius nodded politely.

“What’s your name, son? We don’t get many young folks here.”

“Illius.” His voice came out with a hoarse rasp.

“Well, Illius,” the man replied, “it’s not often someone finds their way all the way down here. I think that’s the point, though.”

“This one is recent, isn’t it?” Illius asked, pointing to the one on the wall.

“The Dragon Riders of St. Mark.” The curator examined the painting. “Yes. It depicts the Battle of Nipaneau.”

Illius simply nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” Illius bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his face.

“Ah, you would have been, oh, maybe eight, ten at the time then. The Battle of Nipaneau was when everything changed.”

“What do you mean?” Illius asked.

“It was the first time he showed up.” The curator pointed to a dark figure looming in the background. A man with wings, horns, and cloven hooves. The Demon Lord of Noviad.

“Who won?” Illius asked.

“No one. No one wins in war.”

A beat of silence. He couldn’t exactly say he disagreed.

“And all over a woman.” The curator sighed.

“The dragons are beautiful,” Illius muttered, trying to change the subject.

The man nodded. “Alvoe is an expert… His depictions of dragons are probably some of the most realistic you’ll ever see, besides looking at an actual Still-Moment of them.”

“Were the Dragon Riders of St. Mark real?” Illius asked. “Or is that just the name of the painting?”

“No, they were real.” The curator nodded. “A group given to us by the Divine to drive back the therian demons. Unfortunately, they simply weren’t enough. The powers of darkness are ever growing. It—it makes me sad to see the world descend into this madness.”

Illius shifted his feet, glancing around the room at the other paintings. “Are there Still-Moments of the dragons, somewhere?” Still-Moment images were rare but becoming a popular alternative to paintings due to the precision with which they captured the subject. Illius didn’t understand the full complexity of how the captures worked, but he knew it used magic to save the light pattern onto a physical film.

“There might be some in the Museum of Fallen Warriors,” the curator said. “A lot have been removed though. Some people think it’s better we’re not reminded of fallen glory.”

“And this is the only painting that shows the dragon riders?”

The man nodded. “Patria was unrivaled, thanks to our dragons. We stood for so long against the evils of the world. After the civil war… There are very few dragons left. The Demon Lord made sure of that.”

Illius narrowed his eyes. To kill a dragon… What kind of a monster would do that?

The old man shrugged. “Maybe the Allfather will bless someone else, and they can lead us to victory. Well, enough of that from me. You’re welcome anytime, Illius. It’s nice to see a familiar face down here.”

The man walked off, and Illius stared back up at the painting. Wings, hooves, and horns. The Demon Lord—the evil Patria had waged war against. The dragon riders wore white, clad in righteousness, while the Demon Lord stood dark and menacing. Illius’ eyes lingered on the scene a bit longer before he moved on. He wandered through the halls, staring at scenes depicting the dragons flying, lying down, ripping apart deer. Sleek and shiny, they captivated him. He reached the end of the section and headed toward the front. He knew the way by heart, and he let himself out the front doors. It was still raining, so he pulled his hood up and went along his way. A few brisk steps took him out of the museum and down the cobblestone street to the marketplace.